


A Gentleman's Prerogative

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Food Kink, OLHTS made me do it, Temptation, wherein Crowley is a goddamned gentleman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Christ on his cross, the angel was a walking, talking temptation and he had no sodding clue.Trouble with being a demon was that temptations were… well… not good, per se, but hard to resist. He just had to remind himself every time that he didn’t want to scare Aziraphale off, didn’t want to point out exactly how naughty he seemed, and he definitely didn’t want the angel to stop.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 291





	A Gentleman's Prerogative

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the lovely creatures of the O Lord Heal This Server discord with a dishonourable mention to MrsNoggin for setting me on this road and to the others for encouraging me onwards.

First time Aziraphale did it, Crowley was caught completely off-guard.

It was that bloody tavern in Rome. Petronius’s. And those sodding oysters.

Angel didn’t have a clue what he was implying. Oh, let me take you out for aphrodisiacs and then make you watch me sliding my thumb under the meat of them and slipping them into my mouth and dripping brine down my chin, all salty and wet and moaning…

Christ on his cross, the angel was a walking, talking temptation and he had no sodding clue.

Trouble with being a demon was that temptations were… well… not good, per se, but hard to resist. He just had to remind himself every time that he didn’t want to scare Aziraphale off, didn’t want to point out exactly how naughty he seemed, and he definitely didn’t want the angel to stop.

So they ran into each other in various parts of the world, in various conditions. Meals. Theatre. An occasion in a sauna in the far north and he had never, ever needed that roll in the snow more than that day, when Aziraphale had sighed happily, leaning against the wood of the lodge, his lips parted in bliss.

Food always made things worse.

There was that time in Constantinople. He’d somehow twisted Crowley’s arm, persuaded him to go to the hammam. Fine. Naked angel. He was a demon. Bit of letching. Not his fault. Looking not touching. No harm done. And listening to the pleased little sighs and moans of an angel getting a thorough scrubbing. Wet moist noises. Thank… Someone he hadn’t manifested any genitals for that particular little adventure.

And then the bathhouse bastards led them to reclining couches after the bath and Aziraphale lounged there, still flushed and pink and only covered around the hips, fingers powdered white with sugar, and offering Crowley a bite of tart apple-flavour locum from his fingertips.

Gentleman, Crowley told himself. He’d be a bloody gentleman, even when the bloody buggering bastarding treat of an angel hand-fed him, his warm, sugar-tipped fingers catching Crowley’s lips.

Shared bread in Athens, oil slick on Aziraphale’s thick fingers. Pink tongue licking them clean.

Drunken laughter in Takayama as Aziraphale curled behind him, sweet plum rice wine on his breath, and tried to show Crowley how to handle chopsticks, curving his hand around Crowley’s. Tutted close to his ear about his grip when he squeezed a bit too hard and rice went flying everywhere.

The positively indecent sound that made every other diner stare when Aziraphale had his first taste of meringue in the court of Versailles. Crowley had frantically fanned herself then, trying to act as if she didn’t know the richly-attired creature who sounded as if he was getting some very intimate pleasure from his pudding.

Breaking apart the seared white flesh of a fish cooked in the steaming pools at Whakarewarewa and giving Crowley a mischievous look before sneakily pinching a fingerful and popping it in his mouth before anyone else noticed, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks with pleasure.

Cheeks hollowing as he sucked the meat from a crab on the shores of the Caribbean, sleeves rolled up, fingers glistening with juices and arms sparkling with platinum wisps of hair. What else could those slick hands do? What else could those rosy pink lips suck with such enthusiasm?

Exclaiming in frustration about the uncomfortableness of corsets and delving her soft pink fingers between her equally soft pink breasts to retrieve a morsel that had missed her mouth and vanished into the depths of her cleavage in London. _That_ had resulted in Crowley discovering the danger of inhaling food instead of swallowing. Since then, he’d limited his intake when the angel was eating.

Every country, every continent, everywhere there was some new delicacy, there he was, unknowingly driving Crowley into a helpless froth of lust and frustration.

Gentleman, he parroted over and over. Any other demon might take advantage, but this demon – _this demon –_ is a gentleman.

It got easier.

Well… sort of.

He… adjusted.

He could sit and watch and listen and not a flicker of his expression would give him away. And oh, he watched. He drank it in as greedily as Aziraphale would indulge in a rich fruity red or a particularly delicious dessert. Call it a slow-cooker. Gently simmering until he could get himself home, chuck his trousers off and set to with a selection of accessories, lubricants and extremely loud profanities.

Frankly, he was amazed his tunic, trousers, hose, frocks, or anything hadn’t spontaneously combusted every damned time, but hey, he was cool. That’s what he did. Cool, confident, and definitely not vibrating like a bee on crack every time food was laid in front of a certain angel.

Should’ve got easier, but instead, turned into a Pavlovian response the moment the angel suggested they go for dinner or if – when he was feeling particularly masochistic – Crowley offered. Christ, when had watching someone eat turned into foreplay?

And he always had that niggle of guilt about it.

The angel had no idea what was whirling about behind Crowley’s eyes. Wearing those glasses had become a critical part of the arrangement, more than just hiding his eyes from the humans. You could keep your face as blank as a fresh canvas, but you definitely _couldn’t_ hide what your eyes were doing when you were staring like a randy teenager at their first glimpse of tits.

So Aziraphale ate, oblivious, and Crowley watched and riffled through which particular kind of genitalia and accessories he would be using later, depending on the meals in question.

And then… Armageddon, when the meals and the wine in the bookshop and covert gifts of chocolates and nibbles became much more loaded.

He dropped hints.

For Satan’s sake, he was practically dropping anvils.

Getting him lunch, offering him an allegiance, covert meetings with dine-in options. What was he meant to do? Drop to his knees and make an indecent proposal to the being he had loved for millennia and lusted after for… well… a lot of that time.

Course not!

Aziraphale was a mess. _He_ was a mess. Adding another complication to the ever-expanding mess of impending doom hadn’t seemed wise, especially not when Aziraphale was getting more and more holier-than-thou. He always did when he was scared and it wasn’t a good time to point out that sucking his spoon and moaning like that wasn’t holier than _anyone_.

And then they lost the Antichrist and even watching Aziraphale comfort-eat his way through a plate-sized wedge of angel’s food cake didn’t provide the usual distraction. Christ, that was a sign of how bad things were and food and drink and everything else all fell by the way side, as they slouched on towards Armageddon. 

Funny how almost dying while facing down Satan puts things into perspective. And losing the person you… whatever about – no matter how temporarily – makes you realise that even if nothing could ever happen, you’d still happily watch them enjoying themselves forever as long as you could be there to watch. 

That was why he headed for the kitchen as soon as Aziraphale crossed the threshold of his home.

Didn’t matter that it was Aziraphale’s first time there. What mattered was that Aziraphale had lost everything he owned and loved and everything he’d ever believed in and the least Crowley could do was provide him some comfort in the things he enjoyed.

“Take a seat,” he called over his shoulder as he dug around in the fridge, picking through the eternal stack of Aziraphale’s favourites he’d kept there _just in case_.

“What are you doing?”

Crowley glanced back, his heart doing something weird and embarrassing in his ribcage. The angel was right there. Right _there_. Soft and bright and shining in his dismal, dark flat. “Food,” he said stupidly. “Thought you might be peckish.”

Aziraphale managed a small, faltering smile. “Oh. Yes. I am, a bit.” He twisted his hands together. “Can I– is there anything– what can I do?”

Crowley gazed at him. He could remember what it was like, losing everything. Needing to do _something_. “You could pick out a wine,” he suggested, waving to the rack that wove its way from floor to ceiling. “Something we both like.”

Aziraphale’s smile strengthened and he nodded, his shoes tap-tapping across the polished floor.

Crowley carried an array of nibbles over to the glass table he had never used in all the years since he’d bought it, opening the cheese platter, the inexplicable pack of sushi, an array of smoked meats, pate, and some jiggly black stuff in a jar that might’ve been caviar. By the time he fetched a couple of plates and dug out some bread and crackers as well, Aziraphale had picked out a bottle of white.

“I didn’t know you like half of this,” he said, as he approached the table.

Would’ve been more than bit mortifying to admit he didn’t, so Crowley took the easy way out and made a non-descript sound. He waved a hand. “Siddown, angel. I’ll get some glasses.”

Definitely didn’t hide his face in a cupboard for a few seconds to gather himself. Nah. That would be embarrassing.

The scrape of a knife on bread and the most subdued of crunches made him turn, glasses in hand. Aziraphale was staring into nothing, chewing absently on a slice of perfect sourdough smeared with his favourite pate and he wasn’t making a sound and that…

That wasn’t right.

“Angel?” he prompted quietly, coming back to the table. “You all right?”

Thunderstorm eyes rose to meet him. “Yes. Of course.”

Crowley sank down into the seat closest to him. Hesitated. Then slipped his glasses off and set them down. “You sure?”

Aziraphale’s eyes darted to the glasses and back. “A little shaken, I suppose.” He turned the piece of bread between his fingers. “It has been– it’s all rather… new to me.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah.” He miracled the cork out the bottle and poured them a glass each. “Thought the food might help. You always seemed to enjoy it.”

Another flicking glance over the table, over the favourites, and then back to his eyes. “I do,” Aziraphale murmured. “I… I rather thought you did too.” He hesitated, as if weighing up some great and terrible question. “What are we now?”

“We?” Crowley sank back in his seat, swirling the wine in his glass. “Whatever we want.”

“Whatever we want,” Aziraphale echoed, stared at him. He took his glass, drained almost half of it in one go. “Yes.” He set the glass down, a new and unfamiliar light in his eyes. “Whatever… _we_ want.”

“You sure you’re all right?” Crowley asked, eyeing him warily.

The smile that the angel turned on him was like touching an electric charge. “Absolutely.” He picked up the jar of caviar, unscrewing and tossing aside the lid, and scooped a rich, dark smear on his fingertip. And then – meeting Crowley’s eyes and melting his brain simultaneously – he sucked it from his finger with the most obscene sound Crowley had ever heard.

The stem of Crowley’s glass cracked when it hit the table.

“Angel!” He was suddenly and painfully aware of his lack of his glasses and his eyes probably going full yellow, because Jesus H Christ!

Aziraphale beamed at him, the absolute bastard! “I _knew_ you liked it!”

“Knew I– bu–“ Braincells were smacking together, trying hard to work. “You _what_? You _knew_?!”

Another fingerdip, another slow, leisurely suck that made Crowley squirm on his seat, and those knowing stormy eyes, watching him every single second. “Well, I hoped,” Aziraphale said, all innocence. “But I was starting to think you weren’t interested.”

“N-not interested?” Crowley echoed. “NOT INTERESTED?!”

Aziraphale made the most cherubic expression over the top of a bite of soft cheese that left his fingers and lips dusted white. “You _never_ reacted.”

Crowley opened and shut his mouth. “You were doing it on purpose? All this time, you were–” He waved a hand incoherently, his words failing entirely as the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue darted out, capturing the flecks of cheese. “Oh you _bastard_.”

“I thought I was making myself very clear!” Aziraphale retorted. “You’re the one who didn’t _do_ anything!”

“Didn’t– ngh!” Crowley flailed his hand again. “Whaddayou think? Because I’m a _demon_ I’d just– you know?!?”

Aziraphale looked utterly unfazed and picked up one of the little fruit tarts, sliding his index fingertip slowly back and forth across the berries in a way that made Crowley’s trousers feel uncomfortably too _much_. “Well, I rather hoped so.”

Squirming from side to side, Crowley huffed in flushing indignation. “Well this demon’s a gentleman!”

The smile that lit the angel’s face was almost blinding without his sunglasses. “You _are_ , aren’t you?” He leaned forward, his pupils wide and dark. “And I’m _famished_.”

There was no sound – human, angel or demon – that could match the noise that came out of Crowley’s throat. And buggering sodding bastarding angel looked even more delighted. Satan’s sake, if Crowley had thought inhibited Aziraphale was attractive, lust was a very good colour on him.

“Ngh?” he managed weakly, pointing back and forth between them, then gesturing vaguely to the genital-coital-desirable-friction regions.

“You know how much I like to try new things,” Aziraphale practically purred. He leaned over the small gap between them and Crowley’s chair screeched as he was swung to face his angel. “And,” Aziraphale said with that smile that was anything but well-behaved, “how much I like putting them in my mouth.”

Crowley was fairly sure he discorporated for a moment.

“Now?” Good word that. One syllable.

And of course – of sodding course – Aziraphale did that lip wobble and the widened eyes and _then_ , because he was a great big tease, he licked sticky fruit syrup off the tip of his finger with only the daintiest of dabs of his tongue.

“Ngh!” Crowley protested, swaying forward.

“I know. I’m _terrible_ ,” Aziraphale sighed, sounding not the least remorseful, “I feel simply dreadful about it.”

They were a breath apart and Crowley hesitated again. Too fast, wasn’t that what he’d said? And now…

He searched Aziraphale’s face and the angel smiled and closed the gap between them.

He tasted of too many different things, the scent and flavours overwhelming. Sweetness and sharpness and his tongue darted against Crowley’s, as if sampling something new and interesting. It was one thing to hear those blood-igniting moans. Totally different to feel the vibration of it against your lips as warm thick fingers slid into your hair.

He didn’t even notice he was moving until he was straddling Aziraphale’s lap, drawn to his heat like a snake to a sun-warmed rock, his fingers tangled up in the cotton-fluff of Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale made a low, approving sound, his lips moving off Crowley’s and Satan’s sake, he wasn’t joking about liking things in his mouth.

Playful suckling on his earlobe, nibbles on his jawline, long, languorous lick to the taut tendons of Crowley’s throat. Hands moving as well, downwards, around, sliding around his chest, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, down, until he had to – whining – wrench his hands from Aziraphale’s hair.

“Oh hush, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, nuzzling his throat. “One must always unwrap a treat to enjoy it better.”

Crowley had a sneaking suspicion he probably matched his hair in colour as Aziraphale tugged him back by the shoulders of his coat and gazed at him. He didn’t take his eyes of him as he peeled Crowley’s coat down his arms and tossed it aside.

“Shirt off, I think,” the angel said with a thoughtful purse of his lips.

Crowley whipped it up and over his head, getting himself tangled in his long silver chain, and Aziraphale laughed.

“Let me, my dear.” He loosened the chain from the shirt, but left it draped around Crowley’s neck, wrapping it around his hand. Crowley made a small, extremely high-pitched sound at the sight of the silver links pressing into Aziraphale’s soft skin. A gentle tug on the chain made Crowley sway back into another run of kisses.

Somewhere along the line, his brain disconnected. Maybe when a broad, strong hand slid up his back. Or when a chain-bound hand stroked a circle across a nipple that seemed to be directly connected to the genitalia he had apparently manifested at some point in the last fifteen minutes.

He became aware – all at once – that he was staring hazily at his ceiling, tilted back so far on Aziraphale’s lap that he would’ve fallen if not for the warm palm spread just below his nape. Hadn’t noticed, he supposed with a fragile little moan, because of the mouth currently sucking and licking and everso gently nibbling at his nipples and making his trousers uncomfortably tight.

“Darling.” The word hummed against his sternum. “May I lay you out?”

Didn’t have a clue what that meant. Didn’t care. Sounded good.

And a miracle rippled around him a second before he was lifted and spread on the suddenly-bare table top, Aziraphale standing over him and gazing down with the look of a starving man eyeing a three course dinner. The angel smiled, splaying his hand on Crowley’s belly and dragging it down to press at the unmistakable bulge at the front of his trousers.

“Ngk!”

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, as if Crowley had any functioning braincells left to even consider stopping. He nodded. Nah. Wobbled his head. Best he could do. And Aziraphale sandblasted the rest of those surviving braincells clean away with a dazzling smile as he unfastened Crowley’s trousers. “Oh _lovely_.”

Crowley’s head–

Words stopped.

Angel licking pink, pink lips. Sinking down.

“Fuck!” Crowley yowled, half-mortified, half… half- Christ only knew what as he came on contact, hips jerking up off the table into Aziraphale’s mouth.

Aziraphale chuckled around him, sucking and licking him clean and setting a different kind of fire in his belly. Didn’t help when the angel’s broad, warm hand spread on his stomach, pinning him down, as he thoroughly explored every part of Crowley’s now-softening effort.

It took a couple of attempts but Crowley managed to brace his arms on the table, propping himself up. Needed to see – stare – gawp – at the sight of Aziraphale kneeling between his thighs, mouth occupied, humming and moaning around him as if he was some kind of delicacy.

With one shaking hand, he reached out, tugged the angel’s hair gently, and stormy eyes met his, as the mouth around him curled into a smile. Aziraphale let him slip free, dropping a kiss on the tip of his prick.

“That was delicious, darling.”

“Ngh,” Crowley told him emphatically, gently tugging his hair. Up. Mouth back, please.

Mercifully, Aziraphale had a lot of experience of understanding him and unfolded from his knees to pin Crowley back down on the table. Salt on his tongue now softer sighs of satisfaction. And Crowley sank his fingers into dandelion-fluff hair and tugged at the angel’s jacket, then shivered as Aziraphale’s lovely big hands slid down over his ribs, down to his hips, caught the waistband of his trousers.

“Hold on,” the angel murmured against his lips a split second before an arm went under him and _lifted_ him clean off the table. He yelped in surprise and even more so when his trousers were whipped halfway down his thighs. Bloody things usually took a miracle or two to get out, but Aziraphale had peeled them off like nothing.

“Oi!”

Aziraphale gave him an amused look. “We’ve only had the started, darling. Surely you don’t want to miss the main course.”

Another of those embarrassing sounds crept up his throat. “Angel! You can’t just– brain! Not– this! Not expected!”

Aziraphale set him down and leaned back over the table, bracing his hands on either side of Crowley’s hips. “Do you want me to stop?” he murmured, the tip of his nose brushing the demon’s. “I will, if you want me to.”

Crowley stared up at him, feeling more exposed without his glasses than his trousers. “And if I don’t?”

There was _nothing_ angelic about the look that spread across Aziraphale’s face, his tongue laving greedily along his lower lip. “You know I like at least three courses for a good meal.”

Crowley laughed shakily, though a bleaker thought bubbled up unpleasantly. “And since this is your last one...”

Aziraphale made a moue. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling.” He moved one hand to drag down Crowley’s side. “I have a plan, if you’ll trust me.”

“Obviously,” Crowley murmured, curling his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale beamed. “Jolly good, but that’ll come later.” He straightened up and stepped back, breaking Crowley’s grip on him. “May I…?”

No idea what he had planned, but whatever it was, if he was excited about it, Crowley had no doubt he’d enjoy it too. And so far, the evening had been pretty bloody fantastic.

“By all means.”

Abruptly, his trousers were swept the rest of the way off his legs, hurled to join his coat, and before he could work out precisely what was going on in the angel’s head, Aziraphale dropped to his knees, hoisting Crowley’s legs up over his shoulders and _yanked_ him to the very edge of the table.

“Ack!” Crowley yelped, scrabbling at the surface. Glass. Brilliant. No grip at _all_. Well done, Crowley. Bloody genius. Something solid next time. “Ang–” a high-pitched sound cut off his words right about the second broad hands cupped his arse and a hot, wet tongue dragged from back to front. “NGH!”

Aziraphale bloody _giggled_.

“Bastard!” Crowley whined, groping down, trying to find his hair. Bloody pest of an angel kissed his fingers and dodged down to lick in more intently and Satan’s balls, that… _that_ was… oh hell and heaven and all their bastarding hordes. “Fuck!”

“Mm.” Aziraphale hummed, curling one arm up and over and taking him in hand and Jesus wept! Demon, yeah. Didn’t really need much respite, but pretty bloody sure any human getting a mouth like that’d be up and at attention just as fast.

He made a garbled sound, kneading at Aziraphale’s forearm, his other hand sinking in his own hair for want of something to do. Twisted and pulled and squirmed, drumming his heels against Aziraphale’s back, which only made the bastard moan more happily as his tongue and – oh fuck me with a cactus! – thick fingers delved into him. Slick. Christ knew where from. Not a miracle.

He was back in ridiculous noise territory when Aziraphale tilted his head and kissed his thigh. “Darling,” he murmured, every point of contact going horribly terribly and ridiculously still and all that fantastic friction stopping dead. Crowley keened and nudged at his back. “No,” Aziraphale said, sounding delighted but firm. “I want to know if I may… partake.”

“Wh- Yes! YES!” Crowley drummed more frantically at his back. “Partake already! Just– _something_!”

And like that, Aziraphale pushed his legs apart and rose up between them, scooping Crowley under his backside and nudging him a little further up the table. When had he taken his coat off? Or had he? Or–

“Ngggg…”

Aziraphale’s innocent expression belied the way he was slowly and methodically rolling his sleeves up, though his lips twitched. “Yes,” he murmured, once he was satisfied. “I noticed that you liked that too.” He stroked Crowley’s thighs consideringly. “Up, I think.”

“Wha–?”

Those broad hands were under his legs again, and Aziraphale nuzzled one calf then the other when he all but flung Crowley’s limbs back over his shoulders again. Crowley swallowed hard, feeling all too empty and all too hard and all too… what the fuck was he meant to do with angel like that, stroking his hands down the front of his legs and smiling like _that_?

“You’re sure, darling?”

As much as he could on a bloody glass table with his legs in the air, Crowley hissed and wriggled more demandingly towards him, colliding with the front of Aziraphale’s trousers and–

“ _Oh_!”

Crowley’s throat clicked. Aziraphale still had his trousers on, but now, his face was pink as well and the swell at the front of his trousers rubbed tantalisingly close.

“In,” he growled out, groping down between them and tugging at Aziraphale’s trousers – oh fucking hell all those _fucking_ buttons – until Aziraphale swatted his hands away and undid himself with a more practised hand. “Could’ve miracled.”

“You know I like to do things myself,” Aziraphale retorted and demonstrated as such by grinding against him and making him drop his head back on the table. “Oh… that… that really is very nice.”

Crowley jerked his head up to mock-glare at him. “I’m not _nice_ ,” he hissed, then caught the breath back as two fingers stroked back into him. “Oh fuck!”

“Mm.” Aziraphale withdrew his hand, beautiful and flushed, and stepped in closer. “Another of those four-letter words you like.” His tongue darted out again and he gave Crowley’s thigh a squeeze. “Shall I?”

“I’ll bloody kill you if you don’t!” Crowley growled into a groan as Aziraphale slowly-slowly-slowly sank into him. Inch by inch, leaning over Crowley as he did so, folding Crowley’s legs between them, until their breaths trembled between one another’s lips.

“Ah…” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and dark and Crowley couldn’t – and didn’t want to – look away. Neither of them moving, not yet, just drinking each other in. Crowley fumbled a hand down, found one of Aziraphale’s by his side, grabbed it.

“All right, angel?” he managed.

Aziraphale’s face lit brightly. “Oh, yes.” He shifted and the push-pull of his body as he rocked made stars go off behind Crowley’s eyes. “I’m afraid I might not last–”

Crowley pulled the angel’s mouth on his, rolling his hips as much as he could, swallowing every wondering little breath and gasp and moan that escaped from Aziraphale, trying like hell to ignore his own throbbing demanding cock sandwiched between them, rubbing up against the rough velvet of Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

Angel’s turn. Had to be angel’s turn. Tugged his hair, licked at his mouth, squirmed and rocked and ground against him and gasped out a happy sound as Aziraphale shuddered with his release, stuttered sounds catching on Crowley’s lips.

Hazy stormy eyes met his and Aziraphale beamed at him, that silly little “I’m not really smiling” smile, the most real one that he tried his best to hide. “Darling,” he murmured, nuzzling the tip of Crowley’s nose.

“So…” Crowley couldn’t help himself. “Definitely wasn’t just the food.”

Aziraphale dissolved into a bashful laugh, ducking his head. “Six and two threes, I think,” he admitted, dropping another kiss on Crowley’s lips. “Would you like me to…” He gestured down between them. “Finish you off?”

Crowley tugged his hair. “I’m not some leftover cream brulee!” he said indignantly. One side of his mouth twitched helplessly. “But then you always do finish my afters, don’t you?”

The angel _twinkled_ at him. “Is that a yes?”

Crowley unravelled his fingers from Aziraphale’s hair. “Who am I to get in the way of you enjoying yourself?”

Shouldn’t have taken much, just a stroke or two. Bit of a shock, then, when Aziraphale dropped back to his knees and Crowley yelped as a hand wrapped around his knob exactly the same second a tongue licked into his dripping arse.

As giant red buttons that cause explosion when hit go, _that_ was a pretty decisive one and his hips shot up off the table, as cum spattered all over his belly and chest and Aziraphale licked and lapped him clean, then worked up and over and up his whole buggering cock and chest as well.

Crowley – panting and boneless – stared at him, as that pink tongue daintily licked up each drop between gentle kisses. Those bright eyes met his occasionally and that smile returned, then more gently shattering licks that left his whole body thrumming like an electric charge.

When Aziraphale’s lips finally reached his, words didn’t seem all that important. He mutely wrapped his arms around the angel’s shoulders, licking into his mouth, tasting both of them there. Both of them in each other. 

Aziraphale gently slipped an arm under his back, drawing him to sit up, stroking his fingertips in tender circles up and down Crowley’s spine.

“Fuck,” Crowley sighed happily, leaning into him. “Angel… fuck…”

“Quite.” Aziraphale nuzzled his cheek. “I’m sorry I made us wait so long.”

Crowley sat back a little way – trying not to wince at the newly-used sensation in his nethers – and curled a finger under Aziraphale’s chin, lifting his face, waiting until he met Crowley’s eyes. “We both know why, angel.” He ran his thumb along Aziraphale’s lower lip, admiring the flush that bloomed across the angel’s cheeks. “You better have a bloody good plan to get us out of this shit-storm we’re in because we _definitely_ have a lot of time to make up and I don’t fancy getting offed before we get the chance.”

Aziraphale’s expression brightened. “I _do_ actually,” he said, “but there _is_ something we need to do first.”

“Oh?”

The angel glanced down towards the floor, where all the food was arranged neatly on plates and platters. Except a bottle of olive oil, which had mysteriously spilled all over the floor.

Crowley chuckled and snapped his fingers, bringing it all back to the table. “Who am I to deny you?”

And Aziraphale beamed at him, bright as a new dawn. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he said, taking one of the seats, with just a hint of that glorious bastard gleam in his eyes. “You _are_ a perfect gentleman after all.”

And Crowley, for better or worse, loved him for it.

**Author's Note:**

> \o/ This fic means I have officially hit 600k of Good Omens fic just in time for the show's anniversary :D


End file.
